


a quiet sort of love

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: FitzSimmons Secret Santa, Gen, Hanukkah, Jewish Character, Jewish Fitz, LLF Comment Project, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Platonic FitzSimmons, Platonic Relationships, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: Fitz is crestfallen because he can't celebrate Hanukkah with his mother, and Jemma decides it's a good opportunity to start shaping their own traditions.{Written for TFSN's Secret Santa}





	a quiet sort of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AchillesMonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AchillesMonkey/gifts).



> For the prompt: Queerplatonic FitzSimmons celebrating the holidays together (Could be Christmas, could be Hanukkah, could be some other holiday, could be them doing winter activities with no religious or celebratory meaning)
> 
> I'm neither jewish nor in a QPR; I tried to write this in the more and respectful way possible, but if anything is not right, just hit me up!
> 
> I want to inmensely thank @buckysbears for putting up with my questions about jewish stuff.

Fitz is distracted.

That wouldn’t be, on itself, such a rare occurrence, since he spends quite a lot of his time daydreaming and even has the audacity to claim that connecting with his creative side helps him do some of his best work, or something of the sort. Usually Jemma pokes him a few times and if that doesn’t bring him back to planet Earth, rolls her eyes and lets him be. He is not entirely lying, after all.

But right now she is already getting worked up over the end of the year reports they need to present to the higher chairs at Sci-Ops, and they really can’t afford for him to be distracted, because that is making _her_ distracted, and that just won’t cut it.    

“Okay, spill. What is in your mind?”

It takes him a few seconds to realize that she is addressing a question directly to him, and that lessens even further his attempts to play it nonchalantly.

“What do you mean? I was just, um, you know, thinking about, um, other projects?”

His tone is so unbelievable that Jemma would laugh if she felt like laughing. Which she doesn’t.

“No, you aren’t. When you think about other projects you doodle all over the margins of your notepad or your napkin or whatever you have within reach. And now your notes are so clean that they could be mine. _Except that there are no notes whatsoever._ ”

He flushes quickly, and Jemma’s harshness drops. They have to hand this in soon, yes, but he is also her best friend and whatever is on his mind is more important than work. (Don’t ever let him find out that she thinks that way.) They always do well in this kind of thing, one way or another.

She places her hand on top of his over the table, and his fingers twitch nervously under her palm

“You do know that you can be honest with me, right?”

“Of course! It’s not, it’s nothing. It’s just a silly thing.”

“It’s not silly if it’s keeping you from doing our very important work.” She says it partially because it’s true, partially to make him smile. It works.

He rubs the back of his neck, another one of his nervous tell-tales, and he looks so much younger like this that Jemma almost feels like smiling.

“It’s just that I was thinking how next week is not going to be the same. You know, without mum.”

It takes her a few seconds to understand what he is referencing, because when she thinks about next week the only thing her mind can focus on is _deadline deadline deadline._ But then she understands. It’s not that she has completely forgotten about his heritage and his traditions and his culture, but since he is not usually vocal about them, sometimes they slip to the bottom of her mind.

Well, that’s going to stop today.

“Hey, I might not be her, but we will have fun, okay?” She squeezes his hand for reassurance. “One way or another, we always make our own fun, don’t we?

“Yeah, no, I know. Sorry.” He shakes his head, seemingly trying to chase away the gloomy mood. “Where we were at?”

Jemma indicates with her pen the point of their conclusions where she lost him, and within minutes they are elbowing each other to get better access to the main page, his penciled scribble intertwined with her neat red-inked handwriting.

Only the next morning, while she knows for sure that he is taking a shower and she won’t be interrupted, she sharpens her planning pencil and sits down at her desk to call Mary Fitz.

* * *

It’s not easy to schedule some hours in the engineering lab without the risk of Fitz popping around just because.

The lab techs and some juniors researchers look at her with curious eyes; most of them know her, but have never seen Jemma without Fitz. She stands very straight and as tall as she can (which is not much, and when did she start making Fitz-like comments inside her own head?), and makes good use of her rank. Nobody would shoot a higher-ranking officer with a questioning comment, even though the engineering lab might not be the best place in all S.H.I.E.L.D. to be a woman.

She collects the equipment she is going to need and chooses a secluded corner to use them; she is mostly sure that she could make do with what Fitz keeps at their flat for personal projects, but it’s more likely that he will notice that she had used them, and she wants to surprise him. She has never actually used this equipment all by herself, but she has watched Fitz using them a thousand times, she has a handful of DIY tutorials under her sleeve, and really, some of these men who seem to have not reached a proper evolutionary level yet use them everyday, how hard can it be.

Apparently, harder than she thought.

She is almost offended, her craftwork skills are top-notch, how on earth can she not weld together a dozen or so of gears? Honestly, she is about to give up at least five times, drop everything into the closest garbage bin and go buy him an industrial one. But then she realizes she is having such a hard time with this because she wants it to be _perfect,_  she cares that much about him. He deserves this, and she wants to give it to him, so difficulty be damned.

Besides, Jemma Simmons doesn’t give up.

* * *

He is cooking dinner when she arrives with her finished jewel-of-the-crown in a gift bag, so excited about it that she is bouncing on the soles of her feet.

“Fitz! Drop whatever you are doing and come here!”

“I’m not gonna drop a pot of stew on my feet, Jemma!” He sounds genuinely offended by her suggestion, and Jemma rolls her eyes even though he can not see her.

“Put it back on the stove!” It’s her cheerful reply, and she can hear him grumbling that he knew he had to do that, even though his mind probably didn’t even come up with that option when confronted with the literal meaning of her request.

He comes out of the kitchen wiping his hands dry, curious eyes and a small smile on his lips, and Jemma pushes the monkey-printed bag onto his chest.

“For you! Open it!”

He looks at her like she is going out of her mind, and she can not blame him, not with the way her cheeks are hurting with how hard she is smiling.

“It’s not my birthday, and it’s not christmas, and it’s not even the anniversary of the day we met. I think.” He tilts his head, his brow furrowing. “I’m losing track of time again, Jemma?”

“Oh my god, Fitz-”

“-because if I am I need you to-”

“-not what is going on here-”

“-I have a lot of time-sensitive projects, I can’t afford-”

“-give you a gift just because?-”

“-even though it’s still snowing so it can’t be that much-”

“-just open the damn bag already!”  

“Shesh, okay, what a gift _you_ are!” He is snarking at her, but he is picking the bag open with curious fingers, and Jemma doesn’t dignify that comment with a reply, too engrossed in watching his face for his reaction. He takes [the metal artifact](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/9c/f1/03/9cf1031cc30dc17ce58a19ac0b267bb5--menorah-gears.jpg) out of the bag carefully, and turns it one way and the other.  “Jemma, where did you got this?”

“I made it!”

“You made it. You took a bunch of gears and made a chanukiah with them.”

“Yes?” She was pretty sure that her idea was a good one, but giving his lukewarm response she is not so sure anymore. “Your mom send me a photo of your old one, because at first I was going to try to replicate it. But then I thought... this is not me trying to replace anything for you.” She makes a pause and fiddles with her fingers, waiting for any reaction from him, but he is looking at her, waiting for her to finish her story. “This is not exactly a gift because you were lonely, or at least not only because of that. This is me apologizing for not realizing sooner that your faith is an important part of your idiosyncrasy and your personal history and your life. This is me opening a door so you can teach me and so we can share this, if you want.”

“You spoke to my mum?” His voice is thick with emotion, and it startles her, because she was so worried he would not be happy about this that she didn’t notice the moisture in his eyes.

“Yes, I did. Is that okay? I didn’t want to step on any boundaries, but you seemed so nostalgic that I wanted to do something to make this better for you. And I needed some guidance on what to do and how to do it.” She knows she is rambling, but she can’t stop, even though she has already recognized the look on his eyes as fondness. “She told me so many wonderful stories, Fitz. And I want you to have her and your monkey chanukiah and her mean latkes, whenever you can manage to go there and get them. But I also want you to have this. Here. With me. And shape together our own stories. Hence, I made you a gear chanukiah.”

Fitz nods once, and he has never been the type of man who deems unmanly to show emotion, but Jemma doesn’t press him to give her a verbal reply. She just can’t keep herself quiet when he turns around, goes to the kitchen and stores the stew on the fridge.

“Fitz, what-?”

“Do you think the nocturnal ice rink will still be open?”

Her words dry up on her tongue; she has nagged him to go there for _forever,_  and he has always complained that it is suicidal enough to willingly go into thin blades as the only structural support for a human body; there is no need to make it worse by doing it at night.

“Yes, I think so.” He is making a grand gesture, she knows; he is trying to thank her for her consideration and match her efforts to build a shared life, and even though she would like to jump into a bear hug with him, she knows him enough to know that putting him on the spot would only make him uncomfortable.

After putting away the food, he places his gift on a drawer with reverent fingers, and smiles at her while looking for his winter outwear.

“Where are your gloves, Jemma? And that scarf mum made you? Bring an extra sweater just in case, we don’t want you to freeze to death out there!”

* * *

During the last years of her teen life and the first ones of her adult life, Jemma used to think sex was the pinnacle of intimacy one could reach with another person.

Of course, as it had happened more than once already, Fitz has proven her wrong, or at least has proven himself to be a big exception of sorts.

Because they are side by side, forming matzo balls, their elbows touching, and Fitz is happily telling her the latest gossip from his lab, and it strikes Jemma like a lightning.

Because these guys he is talking about are his partners too, in a way, but he never talks about them the way that she has heard him talking about her. Because, yes, things are bound to be different with her because they are long-time friends and because they are living together, but it still is mesmerizing how they work together in every aspect of their lives like a well-oiled machine.

Because she has never thought about it in so many words, but her eyeing the clock carefully so they can call his mum at the appropriate time to light the candles, because she wants badly to share this with him. The way they always flow together seamlessly, with words, with actions: he moves his arm over hers and she adjusts to the new setting without even having to think about it; he is telling a story and she interrupts him with an idea for the conclusions they are still struggling with, and he knows what she is talking about without her having to explain it. She has never used the word _intimacy_ to describe this kind of closeness and trust and mutual understanding of each other, paired with her desire to keep it close and dear, but there is not a better word for it; she can’t imagine herself doing this with anyone else, not even with any of her failed paramours.

 _That’s because you blow at choosing men, Simmons,_ he would say, half exasperated and half amused, and she would have to pinch him to not admit that he is right. Because, well,  _he is_ right, she struggles quite a lot with forming romantic bonds, and that’s the way she is, she has understood that already, but it is not only that. It’s also because she has him, and really, why would she bother to try to force a bond this strong with someone else when she already has this one?   

“Hey.” He places his palm on her elbow, and now she feels hyper aware of everything, like the fact that he knows that she spaces out quite a bit, and it’s better to bring her down gently. “It’s almost time to lit the candle. Do you wanna help me with the blessings?”    

“No.” He recoils a little from her negative, and Jemma pats the pocket where her cellphone is to try to ease away his worries as soon as possible. “I may have arranged to have an special guest do them over the phone.”

He looks at her with moist eyes, and there is something on his expression that she can not quite decipher, and he doesn't allow her time to work it, because he nods and gently guides her over the living room without another word.

* * *

Fitz made them hot cocoa as an after dinner snack-  _Yes, Jemma, this_ is  _a tradition, ask my mum if you don’t believe me_ \- and they sit together on the couch to watch the candle slowly burn out. She waits till they are submerged in shadows to talk again, wanting to respect the significance of the moment.

“I tried to knit you something. For the tradition of exchanging gifts. But, um, let’s just say that knitting is not something your mother can teach me over the phone.”

“I can’t believe Jemma Anne Simmons is telling me that there is something on this Earth that she can not master.”

“And that knowledge is your _actual_ gift.” She teases him, but she can see that his face is serious even in the dimly-lit room, and that makes her smile fade. She is about to ask him what is going on when he starts talking of his own volition.

“I wanted to thank you for this, Jemma. Not only for _doing_ this with me, but for taking the initiative to do it. I wouldn’t have done it on my own, and it would have been just a slightly bitter-sweet week without nothing else remarkable. You know I’m not big on faith, but this is not only about faith, it’s also about memories and celebration, and a part of me that I try to embrace. It was easy to do it when I was with my mum, and easy to not do it when I was on my own. But I’m not on my own anymore, and everything is easier when I am with you.”   

She is silent for a while, trying to gather her own thoughts so she can express them in the best way possible. This feels like a big moment, and she still has the immensity of her previous realization coursing through her veins.

“You know that I'm not the best at feelings. But with you, I don't need to be. You get me, Fitz, without the need to use all the complicated words that don't describe me, don't describe us. And I guess that by doing this, I wanted to show you a little the way I feel, to make you feel that way, too. And I know no one gets you better than your mum, but sadly I can't give you your mum, so I tried to give you the best next thing.”

She feels flustered and exposed, like she has just cracked open her ribcage and let him peer inside. This is exactly the kind of thing that she wouldn’t do with anyone else but him.  

“Jemma, _you_ get me. Being with you... it makes me feel focused, and happy, and safe.” How can he say that kind of things without his voice even breaking? He’s supposed to be the sentimental one out of the two of them! “Doing this, sharing time and traditions with you, all of this is important to me, because you are my partner. I thought you knew that.”

“I can’t believe you brought the lab into this!” She tries to make the joke to lighten up the air, because she is getting choked up, and, really, this is a nice, enjoyable moment of openness, she doesn’t want her inconvenient feelings to smudge it, but he is not letting her have any of it.

“I didn’t. You are my work partner, yes, but you also are my life partner.”

The room is still dark, but he is looking at her with big, honest eyes, she just _knows_  it. When she replies, it’s obvious in her watery voice that she is just doing it to not jump him for a hug.   

“Does that mean you are going to let me win at dreidel?”

“Don’t even dream about it, Simmons.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of LLF Comment Project, whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Prompts
>   * Image reactions/li>
>   * Reader-reader interaction
>   * This author replies to comments.
> 



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